Maxwell’s Curse Read Free Page A

murmured, ‘a granny isn’t just for Christmas.’
    ‘Thanks, Jim.’ Astley heard the door click open.
    ‘Any forensic on the bags?’ the pathologist asked.
    ‘Clean as a whistle.’ Hall held the door open for Donald returning with the tea, a beam and some biscuits. ‘This one’s a professional, Jim.’
    ‘Ah, thanks, Donald.’ Astley prised off one of his sterile gloves and took the proffered mug. ‘This isn’t happening, by the way, Henry.’ He raised the tea, ‘So unprofessional. I’d be struck off.’
    Hall waved the sight aside.
    ‘Tell me,’ Astley joined him at the door. ‘Is it right the old girl was found on Peter Maxwell’s front doorstep?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘What is it about that bloke?’
    ‘You tell me,’ Hall said.
    ‘This is not the first time – oh, Christ, Donald, no bloody sugar, for Christ’s sake,’ and he put the mug down before following Hall into the corridor. ‘Not the first time friend Maxwell’s been caught up in murder. There was that Jenny Hyde business a few years back; and that accountant chappie in the theme park …’
    ‘On second thoughts,’ Hall stopped him, ‘don’t tell me. He’s like a bad penny, turning up when you least expect him.’
    ‘Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,’ Peter Maxwell murmured, looking out of his lounge window at the knot of paparazzi hanging around the open space where his front gate should have been, if only someone hadn’t invented open planning.
    Jacquie Carpenter had had the nous to leave her car streets away and had got in through Maxwell’s back garden. ‘How annoying have they been?’ she asked.
    He broke away, bored with the sight. ‘On a scale of one to ten, eighty-three,’ he said. ‘I’m beginning to feel like Fred West at twenty-five Cromwell Street. Should I carry out a box wrapped in black plastic, do you think? Titillate them a bit?’
    ‘Not funny, Max,’ she scolded. That in itself was a landmark in their relationship. A year ago she daren’t have said any such thing. Even now she wasn’t sure how he’d take it.
    ‘You’re right,’ he said and sat himself down below the display of cards and tinsel. ‘God, when’s Twelfth Night?’
    ‘It scared you, didn’t it, Max?’ she sat opposite him, her stone-washed jeaned knees tucked under her chin, her auburn hair, usually worn up according to constabulary regulations, cascading over the shapeless Aran that covered her shoulders. ‘Have you considered counselling?’
    He looked across the room at her. ‘They’ll make a detective of you yet, Jacqueline,’ he said softly. ‘And, yes, it scared the shit out of me. But counselling? No, thanks; I’ve got my cat.’ There was a silence. ‘It’s good of you to come. I know how difficult this must be.’
    She shrugged. ‘Just putting your mind at rest, sir,’ she played the policewoman, ‘as I would with any other member of the public.’
    ‘Oh, thanks a bunch,’ he scowled, teasing the skin from the top of his milky coffee. ‘What’ve you got?’
    ‘Max,’ she growled in warning.
    ‘Oh, come on, now, Jacquie. You can’t do this to me.’ He lapsed into his early Brando. ‘I coulda been a contender.’
    ‘I can’t tell you …’
    ‘This is the only counselling I need – involvement, immersion; the need to know. Who was she? That’s all. Just that one question. No more. I promise.’
    ‘Don’t know …’
    ‘Jacquie!’
    ‘Honestly, Max,’ she laughed. ‘We haven’t the faintest idea.’
    ‘Handbag? Purse? Clothing labels? Laundry marks?’
    Jacquie Carpenter had been on the force seven years now, woman and girl. She knew the routine, the basics of an inquiry. The irritating thing was, so did Maxwell.
    ‘Nothing,’ she smiled. ‘She was naked … Oh shit!’
    Maxwell smiled. The law, nil; Peter Maxwell, one. ‘Sexual assault?’ he asked.
    ‘Max,’ she was firm. ‘I’ve already said too much.’
    ‘Of course.’ His criminal mind was kicking in.